agh's face expressed intense surprise.

"But you don't understand," she said. "Mick was the stake. 'Twas a fair
race, and Larry won. Mick is--is Larry's now."

He laughed a little.

"Oh, nonsense! You raced for fun."

"Yes, for the best fun we could get," she said seriously. "That's why
we staked what we cared most about. Don't you understand?"

For the moment her grief was merged in her unaffected surprise at his
lack of comprehension.

But Milbanke was staring at her interestedly. The scene at the
breakfast-table, and with it Asshlin's offended pride and ridiculous
dignity, had risen before him with her soft, surprised tone, her wide,
incredulous gaze. With total unconsciousness she was voicing the
sentiments of her race. An Asshlin might neglect everything else in the
world, but his debts of honour were sacred things.

He looked more closely at the pretty, distressed face, at the brimming
eyes, and the resolutely set lips.

"And simply because you staked him," he said, "you intend to lose the
dog?"

Clodagh caught her breath, and a fresh tear fell on Mick's head; then
with a defiant lifting of the chin she started forward across the
field.

"'Twas a fair race," she said in an unsteady voice.

CHAPTER VII

Whatever Clodagh may have felt upon the subject, she made no further
allusion to the loss of her dog.

An hour after the race, Milbanke, standing at his bedroom window,
caught a glimpse of Larry riding slowly across the fields towards the
avenue with the evidently unwilling Mick held securely under his arm;
and a few minutes afterwards, a noisy bell, clanging through the house,
informed him that luncheon had been served.

The two girls were already in the dining-room when he entered. Clodagh
had changed her riding habit for a neat holland dress; her hair was
smoothly plaited, and only a lingering trace of the morning's
excitement burned in her cheeks.

As the guest entered, she came forward at once and pointed to his chair
with a pretty touch of gracious hospitality.

"Where is your cousin?" he said, as he responded to her gesture.

She flushed momentarily.

"Gone!" she answered laconically. Then, conscious that the reply was
curt, she made haste to amend it. "He's gone home to lunch," she added.
"Aunt Fan wanted him back. She's a great invalid and always worrying
about him. I suppose invalids are never like other people. Will you
please help yourself?"

She smiled and indicated a s